


#75

by foramomentonly



Series: Meet Ugly Drabbles and Fics [6]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M, Malex, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, meet ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:15:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24615154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foramomentonly/pseuds/foramomentonly
Summary: Prompt: I’m an insomniac who calls my best friend at 3am except I misdial on my landline and I tell you all about my nightmare before letting you talk and now I’m mortified but you don’t hang up
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Series: Meet Ugly Drabbles and Fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773934
Comments: 14
Kudos: 150





	#75

**Author's Note:**

> CW: PTSD, PTSD nightmares

Alex wakes with a shout, trembling so hard his teeth knock together, and he reaches instinctively for his cordless receiver. He doesn't keep his cell phone in the bedroom; he has enough trouble sleeping as it is. Barely glancing at the numbers as he dials, he concentrates instead on breathing in deep through his nose for a five count and exhaling loudly through his mouth for seven, an old breathing exercise courtesy of his very first counselor at the VA. It's going on 3:30 a.m., but he knows Maria will still be awake, probably just now getting home from closing The Pony. Even if she was in bed by 10p.m., though, Alex knows she'd want him to call. 

Maria is home to Alex, always has been. He'd touched her body, kissed her soft lips when they were 15 years-old and even though it hadn't set fire to his fingertips the way everyone said it was meant to, holding her had felt a lot like love, like the only right thing to do. Her friendship had given him comfort when his house was his own personal hell, had fortified him while he learned to embrace his own desires, and had given him a safe space to return to when he followed his battle-ready heart into literal war. 

Now he's home for good—back in Roswell and back to daily contact with someone who sustains him not out of obligation, but unwavering affection. And while war couldn’t possibly have damaged him more thoroughly than his childhood already had, it had offered an opportunity for detachment and disassociation. Now, safe in his warm bed, Alex is dreaming again. Dreams that drop him right back in the eyes of the worst hurricanes of his life, that force him to relive hurts and reopen wounds he thought he’d licked clean years ago. It feels like ancient scar tissue burst open, raw and bleeding again like new. And after every nightmare he reaches out, grips his phone like the lifeline it is and calls Maria, let’s her soothing voice and her slow, even breathing over the line ground him.

Alex hears the line connect and doesn’t wait for a greeting.

“I-it’s me,” he whispers. “I had another one. A bad one. I-I was in the shed and he was there, but he l-looked, he didn’t look like—” Alex pauses, takes a wet, ragged breath. “He was just a shadow, just air, but he was everywhere, in my lungs, I couldn’t breathe, I— _fuck_.” 

He falls silent, listening to the deliberately slow, even breaths on the other end of the line and matching his to them, absently wondering why Maria’s breathing sounds deeper than usual. _Was she climbing the stairs to her apartment?_ When he’s finally taking steady breaths on his own he sighs, and a deep, quiet voice asks, “That better?”

The voice is absolutely _not_ Maria’s.

“Uh,” Alex stutters, “i-is Maria Deluca there?”

The voice on the other end of the line sounds amused, but kind as it answers, “Don’t think so, unless I’m much drunker than I think I am.”

Just the mention of a drink makes Alex’s skin tingle; he longs for the harsh burn of whiskey down the back of his throat, for the numb haze of a solid buzz to cloud his mind and chase away the clarity of his nightmare’s lasting visions. This is why he doesn’t keep alcohol in the house.

“Shit, sorry,” the voice says in a rush. “You’d probably kill for a drink right about now.”

“Who _is_ this?” Alex asks.

“Michael,” the voice replies. “Michael Guerin. I work over at Sanders Auto?”

Alex knows the name and the man; he’s at The Pony often enough to be considered a regular, but behaves too well to be labeled a drunk. He’s a tall, rugged cowboy type with long legs in well-fitting denim, kind hazel eyes, tan skin, and golden curls. Distantly, Alex remembers Maria might have dated him for a few months a couple years back.

“Right,” he replies, slipping deeper into humiliation with every passing second. “And what number is this?”  
  


Michael rattles off seven digits and, yup, that’s two switched digits away from Maria’s phone number.

“Shit,” he mutters. “I’m so sorry I woke you.”

“It’s okay, Alex,” Michael says, and Alex stiffens. “I was up.”

“How—”

“Caller ID,” Michael explains, sounding pleasantly apologetic. “This is my cell.”

“Of course it is,” Alex breathes, shaking his head.

“And, uh, not for nothing, but I’d know your voice anywhere,” Michael admits. “It’s sexy as hell.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex spits, “I call you by mistake basically having a panic attack and _you’re hitting on me_?”

“Yeah?” Michael freely, shamelessly admits. “I mean, I’ve seen you at The Pony, but it’s not exactly safe to cruise there. You calling me in the middle of the night needing to be grounded kinda feels like the best shot I’m gonna get.” 

“How _did_ you know how to do that?” Alex asks, thinking of the research and guides Maria has bookmarked on her laptop for these very instances.

“Personal experience,” Michael says. “In the form of shitty foster placements and years of therapy.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex replies softly.

“I’m just glad you called _my_ wrong number,” Michael says, and his tone is tender, sincere.

“Me, too,” Alex breathes.

“So, next time I see you at The Pony,” Michael begins, a hesitant smile in his voice, “I should buy you a drink?”

Alex rolls his eyes, but he bites his lip and calls up a memory of Michael leaning against the bartop at The Pony, body long and lean, denim hugging his toned ass.

“Yeah,” he says before he can stop himself. “You should.”

“Okay,” Michael agrees, his tone satisfied, almost chipper despite the ungodly hour.

“And, hey,” he adds, voice sobering, “if Maria doesn’t pick up one night, you’ve got my number now.”

“I do.”

“Don’t be afraid to use it.”

Alex laughs a little self-consciously. 

“I’d say I’m not afraid of anything, but you _know_ that’s not true.”

“I do,” Michael replies, “ _and_ I think you’re brave.”

Alex sighs, but a small smile tugs at his lips.

And I think you’re a little crazy,” he says. “But thanks.”

“Anytime,” Michael replies. “Like, literally.”

“Night, Michael.”

“Good morning, Alex.”


End file.
